


Silk and Steel

by jillyfae



Series: Blood and Lyrium [6]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Other, Tumblr Prompt, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think you'll do anything to get ahead, out of Lowtown's slums.  Maybe you're right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silk and Steel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loquaciousquark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciousquark/gifts).



She was lovely. Demure, and sweet, wrapped in pink silk and a heavy veil, her voice an achingly rich murmur, always just too soft to carry any meaning to your ears beyond the simple fact of its existence, her head bowed whenever anyone looked at her where she stood in Messere’s shadow as he gave his orders.

Not that you were ever on the receiving end of his orders; you were just a runner, trailing behind Serah Harimann, carrying her cloak when it was warm, passing her her gloves when it was cool, learning the names of her employees and the locations of all her businesses so you could run the messages between them, so you’d notice if something was ever _off._

You were much too unimportant for _Le Monstre_ to notice when he met with his officers.

You were free to ignore his words and watch his mistress instead, to strain for a glimpse of those startling pale blue eyes, bright and beautiful, even shadowed by black lace or netting, to feel the heat build in the back of your throat, bitter and burning, at the line of her neck as she lifted her chin, at the graceful shift of her fingers as she placed her hand on Messere’s shoulder, or dropped them again to rest in her lap.

 _She_ was the one bright spot in your life, the one hint that sweetness really existed, somewhere, that it wouldn't always be grey, working for Flora Harimann, her money just enough you could never afford to leave, but not enough to make anything better, most of your wages pouring into the small apartment you kept for your sisters, barely keeping all your heads above the waves of muck rising up from Darktown.

You pretended you were content, after all. Couldn't complain, you were doing so much better than most of your neighbors, all of them too thin, too sharp, hanging out on stoops, stealing coppers off the tourists, dodging the Guard.

Never mind if it still wasn't enough, would never be enough, an endless future of cold nights and empty mornings, of treading water in the same dark dank pool for the rest of your life, never moving.

No escape.

Until the day you finally got too good a glimpse when Messere patted her cheek, and the veil shifted, and you saw the _scars,_ lines only barely pale enough to show against her skin, pulling down at the corner of her eye, up at the very edge of her mouth.

They disappeared again, only a heartbeat later as the veil settled back into place, just thick enough to interrupt the flow of your gaze so you couldn’t quite track where the edge of her eye or lips should be, where the line of her skin wasn’t quite as smooth as the illusion implied … but you couldn't forget, couldn’t breathe, couldn't think, _who would dare, not her, she's_ his _, everyone knows, he runs everything ..._

All your restless discontent stilled, hardened, and came to rest in your heart. _Hate._ That's what you felt, because only _he_ would dare. Only him, always him, every dark shadow, every crying parent, every hungry baby.

Every mark of pain on the one beautiful soul you'd ever seen.

You tried to breathe again, deep and shuddering and silent, and you were looking at her, and this time she was looking back, those eyes, _those eyes met yours,_ and she lifted one finger to her lips, _shhh,_ and blinked, impossibly slow, and turned away again, her body curved towards her so-called lover, the man who was supposed to be her _protector,_ but of course _he_ had no idea how to cherish someone like her, not him, not the monster of Kirkwall.

Bastard.

Every meeting after that, you couldn’t help but watch, see how tightly he gripped her wrist, how carefully he kept her two steps behind, isolated, all alone, except for him.

Your hate cooled, and sharpened, ‘til your body burned with it, each breath a cut against your heart, because every single breath you took meant he was taking another breath as well, free and powerful and always so damned pleased with himself.

_Le Monstre._

It sounded so fancy, almost ridiculous. A useless Orlesian affectation of a name, the sort of thing a young thug would call himself to scare the competition.

But he hadn’t given himself the name, for all he’d taken to it with a certain amount of smooth pride, a hint of an arrogant smile. He’d been given it, whispers in dark alleys when his competitors simply disappeared.

And sometimes came back again, blank eyes and clammy skin as they walked themselves out somewhere public and helped themselves to die, with never a sound, no screaming, no cries of pain, no begging or arguing.

Nothing but tears, slow and silent as they stepped off of roof-tops, or out into the harbor, or walked into the middle of firefights, or in one particularly memorable occasion, the poor bastard slit his own throat, blood spilling impossibly bright against the white-washed steps of a small Chantry chapel as he collapsed.

You’d been there for that one, had seen the way his chest lifted, slow and even as he breathed, the way his hand stayed firm and steady all the way through the motion, even his grip a simple easy thing, no white knuckles or clenched fingers.

And yet there were tears, pooling in the corners of his eyes, against his nose, clear trails catching sunlight as they slowly worked their way down his cheeks.

You still had nightmares about his eyes, wide and despairing, terrified and resigned, as he watched himself die.

Watched as he killed himself, and everyone knew there was nothing to be done, except clean up the blood and body afterwards.

 _Her_ eyes didn’t look like that. There was no trapped soul dying behind them, no coercion keeping her hands and body where he wanted them. Somehow, he had forced her to agree. Somehow, he wanted to see her choose to stay under his power.

_Le Monstre._

It fit too well; more every time you had to stand silently and listen to his voice, had to watch the glint of his eyes and that arrogant smile, and everyone bowing to him, too afraid to do anything else.

Your hate grew, ice in the back of your throat, choking, smothering, endless and inescapable.

Useless.

There was nothing you could do about it, no way to save her, to save yourself, to save anyone.

Nothing to do but duck your head and follow orders, relearn how to speak around it every morning, and try and remember how to breathe.

Try to remember one good thing that made it worth getting up again the next day, and the next.

Your sisters’ laughter when they could afford new dresses, or books, or an extra quart of milk.

The burn of a shot of _the good stuff_ going down your throat when Serah Flora was pleased with the day’s work, and told the bartender not to water it down.

You tried to find more, the sound of your new boots hitting the pavement when you walked home on a rare clear evening, the smooth glide of your favorite leather gloves against your skin, sneaking into a show at the theatre or the music hall, shared stories and mock fights with the rest of the runners.

But none of it could compare to the whiff of her perfume, something dark and rich that you never could quite identify, and so was always and forever _her_ , unique and perfect.

Every night you weren’t tired enough to pass out when you crawled into bed, she came to your thoughts, your dreams, memories of the lush curves beneath her dress, the way silk hugged her hips. You could never stop yourself from wondering what she looked like beneath it all. For a moment or two, you’d linger in a fantasy where you had the chance, the right, to see.

But then, even in dreams, golden brown eyes glinted coldly from the shadows, and you couldn’t help but wonder what her nights were really like, in _his_ bed.

Instead of yours.

She would never be in yours, you knew that, but you couldn’t help wishing you could somehow free her from his.

* * *

 

It was so impossible you’d never even bothered to fantasize about it, never considered it, never planned for it.

Never thought she’d recall that one brief glance, that one quiet _shh_ enough to dismiss you from her thoughts.

Her hand seemed cool, soft and delicate, silk gloves smooth against your too rough fingers. Her thigh was pressed against yours, and the reality of her breasts, almost brushing against your arm, was enough to make it hard to breathe.

Your stomach was twisting, tight and hot, an impossible combination of arousal and nausea and perhaps a hint of vindication beneath the fear.

She’d remembered you.

She’d caught your eye after the meeting, after your boss and her “master” had both left, had tilted her head and murmured the faintest invitation to join her for tea.

She was smiling at you now, small and shy, just barely visible beneath the shadows of her veil.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and your heart wanted to stop at the sound of it, even sweeter than the vague impressions of her voice that you had dreamt about. “It’s nice to have company. Usually, I just,” she shrugged, her voice trailing off, her head shifting slightly to the side, as if she was still afraid, even now, even here, this small quiet room that was clearly all her own, pink edged curtains and fresh flowers in a vase on the deep windowsill, but even in her room she couldn’t be safe, still had to check to make sure _he_ wasn’t there, wasn’t watching, wasn’t waiting.

Your hate was almost comforting now, as much a part of you as the curve of your spine as you leaned in, just a little closer. “It’s my pleasure, milady.”

She almost laughed, short and breathy, before her hand lifted to cover her mouth, before her head ducked down, as if afraid of her own brief happiness. “Oh, I’m not a lady.”

“Yes, you are.” You knew you should attempt to sound more easy, more innocent, less desperate, but you couldn’t, _couldn’t_ let this chance slip away. Couldn’t let her think she deserved the shadows she lived in. “The loveliest la-“

“Shh,” she lifted her hand, her finger a breath away from your mouth, close enough you could almost taste the silk. “ _Don’t._ ”

There was a quaver in her voice, and you sighed, but you stayed silent.

Because she’d asked.

“Thank you.” Her head ducked again, as if she hadn’t expected you to listen.

As if no one ever listened to what she wanted, and your hate pricked, sharp against your heart, and you started talking. Something, _anything,_ to help her forget the cause of that hate, to help her escape, if only for a little while.

Nothing very interesting, you were afraid, stories about your day, your sisters, your runs, bad jokes told by drunk bartenders, worse ones by broke gamblers, until you finally startled a proper giggle out of her, and your heart soared.

And you knew you’d come back again, any day you could manage it, any time she asked, in the hopes you could ease just one more smile out of her, bring one more laugh into her life.

* * *

 

Your sisters noticed. You didn’t visit them too often, didn’t want them to live the life you’d chosen, but they were all you had …

Only they weren’t anymore, you had _her_ , soft glowing memories of sun-drenched afternoons warming your thoughts.

So they teased, gently, about the new smile on your face, your distraction over dinner if your visit to them happened on the same day as a visit to _her._

You didn’t tell them anything. What could you say? She was perfect, but she was trapped, and there would never be any future for either of you.

And even as your hate grew, filled every bit of space inside you, you never let a bit of it free. You had no chance against _Le Monstre._ Not with his money, his power, his people. Not with that whispered hint of blood magic, those enemies who killed themselves just for his asking.

But you could not quite despair, not now you knew the shape of her hands beneath her gloves, the scent of her skin when the breeze blew across it, the lilt of her rare, precious laugh.

Perhaps you had no future, but you would enjoy the present, would give her this one interlude of friendship, freely given, to warm her own dark life for as long as possible.

Your sisters worried, you could tell, but they let you go with too long hugs and a brush of their lips across each of your cheeks.

_Take care._

If only you could.

But it was much too late for that.

Work got harder, the hours longer, the shifts later and later at night; things in Serah Flora’s organization had gone taut and dangerous, even more so than usual. Your visits to _her_ grew further apart, your time shorter, as it became almost impossible to slip away from your boss’ tight sharp gaze.

Not quite desperate, not yet, though you could feel it coming, a shadow looming somewhere behind her. You only hoped she’d pull through, or you’d be lost with her.

 _Le Monstre_ never gave second chances.

You found yourself wondering for the first time, as you tried not to stumble in the rain after working almost two days straight, how _Flora Harimann_ of all people had ended up working for him. She was high class, powerful and rich in her own right, much too arrogant to willingly bow to someone else, especially someone like _him._

You felt a chill down your spine. Your shoulders shivered, and you pretended it was just from the cold, from the drip of water down behind your collar. Pretended you hadn’t seen an echo of your own hate deep in Serah Flora’s eyes, now and then.

Pretended you didn’t recognize the pattern of it, her allies falling apart around her.

Pretended you didn’t know what _Le Monstre_ did to traitors.

Pretended you weren’t afraid, as you slipped up to the side entrance of his house, the one where _she_ met you, and took your coat, and slid you into a seat before the fire in her sitting room, a warm mug of coffee in your hands before you’d even taken a breath to ask how she was doing.

Pretended your heart wasn’t breaking when she answered you with a shy ducked head and a whispered “better now,” because you knew you were going to leave her soon, sooner than you ‘d expected, sooner than you’d hoped.

Even sooner than that, as the door burst open before you’d even finished your drink, and scalding coffee in your lap was less startling than the sight of Serah Flora being marched in to join you, _Le Monstre_ on her heels.

Scalding coffee hurt much less than the laughter beside you, shockingly cold, colder than the hate you thought had frozen your heart, only you froze even more now, fear and regret, as _she_ took off her gloves and veil, and smiled.

It was not a nice smile. Her scars shifted, her eyes were too sharp, and she leaned forward, _hungry._

Gone was the shy duck of her head, the soft caress of her voice.

_A lie. All a lie._

You couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t seem to think, your heart shocked slow and unsteady as you watched Serah Flora close her eyes and swallow.

“You thought you were safe, didn’t you.” _She_ spoke now, _Le Monstre_ standing silently by the door, and now his head was bowed, the slightest glint of his eyes catching the light as he watched _her._

You recognized the look on his face, so much like the one you were sure you’d used to wear, almost worshipful, grateful to be waiting on _her_.

You’d gotten it all wrong.

You’d all had it all wrong.

“You were so careful, weren’t you, even as you plotted, even as you planned.”

Serah Flora winced, the smallest shift beneath her face, her eyes still closed, her fingers curling helplessly at her sides.

“You made sure of your recruits, found those who were loyal to you, not _him._ Never him.”

The man in question huffed a soft laugh in the background, but he didn’t interrupt.

“You let your protégé see too much, because of course you’d chosen so well, chosen someone _safe_. Someone who hated. A hatred as strong as your own, clear and pure and endless. No chance of betrayal there.”

 _Her_ gaze flicked to you, sharp and quick, and you felt nausea curl in her your stomach, burn bitterly in your throat. “But you hated the wrong monster, didn’t you?”

She smiled again, and you trembled at it, wished there was an escape, something, _anything._ It made you want to pray, if only for a blanket to hide yourself from her sight, made you think of the monster under your bed when you were a child, just waiting for a foot to slip free and into its grasp.

You were all in her grasp now.

Her eyes drifted away again, easily, lazily. She knew she had all the time she wanted.

Her monster shifted, slow and dark, and then he moved, so fast it was hard to see, so fast there was nothing anyone could have done, his hand in Flora’s hair as he pulled her head back, the impossible bright glint of a blade appearing in his grasp just before he pulled one sharp edge across her throat. Blood fountained, hot and red, splashing across _her_ face and clothes and she gasped, such a sound you’d imagined, once, when you dreamed of kissing her, and the air was thick with the smell of it, and you tasted your own death as a few drops made it far enough to land on the toes of your good leather boots.

You wanted to be sick, but you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even blink. Had to watch her laugh, watch her body ease with pleasure, watch as her eyes opened, so slowly, lids heavy, lashes dark, just enough to reveal a dark unfathomable well of joy in response her victory.

In the feel of someone else’s blood upon her skin.

“Touch me,” she whispered, and you couldn’t even shudder as his hand reached out, fingers gentle as they came to rest against the spattered trail of blood along her scarred cheek. He stepped closer, and she rocked up onto the balls of her feet, leaning in towards him, and their lips barely brushed, and yet, and still, you ached at the sight of it.

You wondered how you’d ever let yourself be fooled into thinking their passion wasn’t all consuming.

Wasn’t mutual.

She tilted her head, those pale blue eyes as hard as qunari steel when they met yours, and you wished you didn’t still feel the impact of them in your chest, a twist of pleasure and pain around your heart.

Her hand rested on her monster’s chest, trailed down his arm as she stepped away, towards you, the glint of the blade he had passed to her dulled now that it was edged with Serah Flora’s blood.

“I could give this to you, make you use it.” She lifted her free hand, curled her fingers, and you felt the pulse of your heart throb, too hard, too fast, pulled by the strength of her will. “But you never knew enough to be my enemy, now did you?”

You didn’t need to shake your head, even if you could. She knew. She knew everything, and part of you only admired her more for it. Perhaps you’d loved well, despite yourself.

She was glorious, this _diablesse._ There were worse ways to die.

“I supposed you’ve earned that mercy at least.”

“Theia,” you felt her name slip free against your will, _only it isn’t, not really, she set me free, just for this,_ and she leaned in, her breasts pressing against your side, her lips almost touching your ear, and even now there was a thrill to it, to have her so close. A dream come true, the worst sort of nightmare, and you had to close your eyes and clench your jaw to stop yourself from doing anything else, from crying, from breaking, from screaming aloud against the waste of your life, your heart, always going in the wrong direction.

“Hawke,” she told you, her whisper sweet and cold. “I have always been _Hawke,_ and you have always been my prey.”

The press of her knife against your chest was, at last, at least, something honest, and you sighed, and gave one final thought to hoping your sisters would be alright before your blood spilled across her hands.

Right where she wanted it.


End file.
